Fisher was twenty-six years old, just over 6ft tall with beautiful, deep – almost navy – blue eyes, short, slightly unruly dark hair and a beard that gave him a somewhat rough-and-ready look that only made him all the more attractive, as did the multitude of tattoos he’d collected over the years that graced his extremely toned and incredibly sexy arms. In fact, the only word to describe Ryan Fisher was handsome. Very, very handsome. And it was this – combined with the hard, toned body – that had made him the pin-up player of the football world, which meant he didn’t just get the women, he also got the sponsorship deals, the modelling contracts, the invites to every celebrity party going. But Ryan also had a natural talent for the game that hadn’t been seen in a long time.
Growing up on a large, sprawling council estate just outside of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, he’d only ever wanted to be a professional footballer. As a child he’d spent all of his spare time kicking his beloved football against walls or organising five-a-side games with his mates on the playing field at the back of his house. Saturdays had been his favourite day of the week, when he’d sit with his dad, eagerly watching the football results roll in, then spend the rest of the evening waiting for Match of the Day to start so he could watch the professionals at work, hoping that, one day, he could be one of them, playing out there on some of the most famous pitches in the world in front of thousands of loyal supporters. When his father could afford it, they’d even go into town to see Newcastle Red Star play, giving Ryan a taste of what it felt like to be part of the excitement football could create. Days like that had only made him want it more.
It was all he could think about. He’d thrown himself into every school team at the earliest age he could, rising from a star of the under-13s into a promising under-16 prospect, which is where he was first spotted by a scout from a London club on the lookout for local talent. He’d been fourteen at the time, and he’d never forgotten the excitement he’d felt when that scout had approached his father on the touchline one rainy Thursday afternoon as his team took on another local school in the Under-16’s county tournament. That one meeting had been the beginning of what was turning out to be one hell of a career for Ryan.
He’d been whisked down to London for a trial at a First Division club, with their coach eager to sign him to their Youth Team almost immediately, and whilst his mother had been reluctant to let her son move down south – away from his family, his school, his friends – at such a young age, his father had seen the wisdom in not letting this chance pass Ryan by. It was an opportunity that might not have come along again.
And so the journey began. His days had been split between the training field and the classroom as he’d combined those first steps of his dream career with studying for his GCSEs and, thanks to a tutor whom Ryan had never forgotten, he’d come away with passes that could have guaranteed him a place at college to study A Levels. If that’s what he’d really wanted. But that had never been Ryan’s plan. Despite the fact he’d been – and still was – an intelligent young man, he’d only ever wanted to play football, and those that mattered could see that natural talent he possessed. They’d known it was an ambition he could easily fulfil.
By the age of sixteen he’d been playing first-team football, still unable to believe that he was actually living his dream. But that dream had only grown bigger when, at seventeen, a big-name club had shown more than a little interest in him. And suddenly, before Ryan’s feet had had a chance to hit the ground, he’d been surrounded by agents and managers and PR people as word began to spread of this new, young talent that was setting the football world alight. There was talk of big money and sponsorship deals, figures that – at the time – Ryan couldn’t even begin to comprehend, so it was just as well there’d been people around who could deal with it all for him. It had been a confusing but exciting time. But all Ryan cared about was playing football. For a while, anyway. Because, once the money had started rolling in and he’d become more savvy with the way the system worked, he’d begun to realise that the amount you could earn depended very much on what you had the balls to ask for.
By the age of nineteen Ryan Fisher had become one of the most recognised faces in English football. And one of the highest paid. He had a sharp business mind, able to steer agents and managers in whichever direction he wanted them to go as easily as he could direct a ball into the back of the net. Contract negotiations were never a sticking point because Ryan wasn’t just business-smart, he also had a knack for turning on the charm, both on and off the pitch.
As a young, top-earning player he had no shortage of women throwing themselves at him. And that was one perk he was more than willing to capitalise on. By the time he was twenty-one he’d become one of the biggest players in the English Premier League, with a life that was way beyond even his wildest dreams. Clubs were falling over themselves to sign him, men wanted to be him, and women wanted to be with him. He had everything he could ever have wished for, and he was doing the job he loved because, despite everything else that was going on around him, Ryan’s first love was the game itself. But, if that game brought with it all the trappings of luxury and fame that he was experiencing, then that was a bonus he was happy to take.
He’d been lucky enough to not only play for some of the biggest and best clubs in England, he was also a regular member of the international squad, having represented his country on numerous occasions – the pinnacle of any serious footballer’s career as far as Ryan was concerned. And it never hurt the old bank balance, either.
But now, after almost twelve years away from his native North East, he was finally coming home in a record-breaking, multi-million-pound transfer deal that was seeing him sign for one of the region’s biggest and most famous clubs – the club he’d supported as a boy. It was a deal he hadn’t been able to ignore. For a number of reasons. The time was right for Ryan to leave London behind. The time was right for him to finally come home.
‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr. Fisher,’ a pretty, young blonde girl smiled at him as she ushered him through the main lobby area of the huge and impressive stadium his new club had just had built. Ryan followed her, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed firmly on her backside – which looked nothing short of perfect in a tight black pencil skirt – as she took him through a set of double doors, past the Players’ Lounge, before stopping outside the Press Lounge opposite.
Ryan couldn’t help but smile back at her, noting the way she blushed slightly before quickly turning away to open the door for him. Even though he was more than capable of opening it himself.
He looked around, peering inside the still-quiet and empty Press Lounge that, in less than an hour, would be full of journalists, reporters and photographers all waiting to hear what he had to say. All waiting to find out just why he’d finally chosen to come home and play for the club he’d supported all his life.
Somehow or other he’d managed to shake off both Max – his agent – and the club official who was to sit in with him when he did this pre-press-conference interview with a local news programme. How he’d managed that he had no idea because they’d been stuck to him like limpets ever since he’d got out of the car not two minutes ago – a car he’d been bundled out of in a rather unceremonious fashion in some ridiculous attempt to keep news of his signing a secret until the very last minute. Which was a waste of time. It was probably old news by now, thanks to the recent Twitter rumours and media speculation that had been rife for the past couple of days.
Taking one more quick glance around, he followed the pretty PR assistant into the room, not missing the slightly panic-stricken look that took over her face when she realised he was alone.
‘Oh, I’m… I’m sorry, Mr. Fisher. We need to wait for the club official, and your agent. They should be here, too. I don’t know where they’ve… If you’ll just excuse me…’
Ryan put his arm across the doorway, blocking her exit, smiling that smile that had turned a thousand women’s heads over the years. ‘So we’re alone? Does that bother you?’
‘I… I could get into trouble, Mr. Fisher…’
‘Quit with the Mr. Fisher crap, will you? It’s Ryan. And you are…?’
She looked